


Dorm Life

by poisontaster



Series: AKB Outtakes [9]
Category: Actor RPF, CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Gen, Multi, Sexual Slavery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 18:23:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look at life away from the main house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dorm Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [santacarlagypsy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/santacarlagypsy/gifts).



> Takes place during A Kept Boy. Written for Santacarlagypsy's prompt: _I've always been curious to hear more about Jared/Adrianne/Sandy/etc living together in their separate living quarters._

"Bitch, did you steal my pink glitter shirt again?" 

Sandy moans and turns over on her stomach, dragging her pillow further over her head. "Go 'way."

"Oh, hell no. I'm not leaving until you tell me where my shirt is."

Sandy huffs and gives up any chance of getting back to sleep. She takes her revenge by throwing her pillow. It hits Chad square in the face. "I didn't borrow your dumb shirt, asshole. I wouldn't borrow your stank-ass clothes anyway. Maybe it got up and walked away on its own."

"Ha ha, very funny." Chad wipes her pillow across his butt then tosses it back at her. Sandy bats it aside. Guess she's washing her linen today. "I'll have you know that _eau de Chad_ is composed of ten percent of an honest day's sweat and ninety fucking percent sex-ass pheromones." He turns around and farts, waving it around with his hand. "Sample for yourself."

"Oh, Jeez, _Chad_!"

"Ten percent actual work, that sounds about right." Jared must be on his way to the shower, because he's still in his pajama pants and he's got a towel slung over his bare shoulders. "And you only got the other part half-right. Smells like ass all right." Jared pinches his nose shut and pulls a face, waving his hand theatrically. "Leave Sandy alone."

Sandy looks down at her hands and reminds herself that this is just how Jared is. Big and friendly and _dumb_ , for all his smarts. He'd do the same for Adrianne or, hell, even that new kid, Joe. Maybe especially Joe; she's sure she's caught the two of them eyeballing each other more than once. 

"I'm not leaving her alone until she gives me my fucking shirt back." Chad insists, cocking a fist on either of his bony hips. His hair is all fluffed up and he looks like an indignant wading bird. "I know she took it."

"I didn't take your stupid shirt, Chad! I don't even know what shirt you're talking about!" Sandy throws up her hands, rolling her eyes like they're going to fall out of her head. 

Chad and Jared are in the middle of some kind of wrestling move—or maybe it's foreplay, how the hell would she know?—but Chad points his finger at her and says, "Don't lie to me, magpie. I know you like shiny shit, sneaking in my room like the thief you are…"

"Mmm…what the hell are you all arguing about?" Adrianne grumbles, rubbing her eyes and still at the stumble into furniture stage. She's wearing a pair of red ruffled boy shorts that show off her miles of leg and a button-down that's only about half-buttoned.

"Hey!" Chad squeaks, struggling mightily against Jared's arm locked around his throat. "That's my shirt!"

It is both very pink and very glittery. Also, somehow, very Chad. 

Adrianne shrugs and tosses back hair that's gone back to wheat-blonde after a brief, unhappy pit stop in Brunetteville. "Yeah? So?"

The three of them go off in a squabble and Sandy falls backwards onto her bed with a sigh—careful to avoid the pillow Chad touched. He doesn't mean anything by it, she knows, it's just how Chad is and eight years in close proximity has given her a pretty thick skin. Plus, she _was_ a thief, no way around it. She just hadn't been a very good one.

If she had been, she'd never have ended up a slave. 

If she had been, then maybe she'd be able to steal Jared's stupid, wayward heart.

***

"Give me a cigarette."

"I thought you quit."

Adrianne sighs and punches Chad in the thigh. "Yeah, you thought I was done fucking you, too, and here we are. Give me a fucking cigarette."

He taps one out for her and hands it over, even going so far as to light it. Adrianne leans back against the window sill, crossing legs tiger-striped in shadow laid by the blinds. Chad rubs his thigh. Adrianne's got some bony fucking knuckles. She looks good in the moonlight, though, Annie, smoke curling around her. She looks like one of those dames from the black-and-whites. Crisp. Classy, even with her hair all messed up and soft from the sex. She holds the cigarette up while her pinky traces the line of her lower lip like she's testing for soreness. Chad smiles to himself and tucks his hands behind his head.

"It's weird, don't you think?" she says suddenly, glancing at him through drifting veils of smoke. There's a bottle cap on the sill and she flicks the ashes into it, half of them falling into a halo around the metal. 

"What's that?"

"Jensen's mom." Annie shakes her head then gives a short laugh. "I mean…Jensen's fucking _mom_. How crazy is that?"

Chad nudges her thigh with his knee and holds his hand out for the cigarette. "You want Jeff to go and look up your family?"

She shakes her head again, more emphatically. "No. It's not that. It's not…" She tilts her head, eyebrows flexing as if to touch the little mole in between them. "Do you ever think about it—your family?"

Chad turns the cigarette so he can eyeball the cherry, like he's thinking about it, even though he already knows his answer. "Nah," he says finally, scratching his belly. His fingertips find the wandering river of his scar by reflex, but by the way Annie moves her head, he knows she logs it. 

Annie thinks he's all fucked up about the scar and everything he tells her to the contrary only makes her believe it more, in typical chick fashion, but the truth is, he's not fucked up. 

Nowadays, as a rich man's slave, Chad would get the best of care and the scar that simultaneously made him a slave and ruined his value would barely exist. Chad thinks _that_ is kinda fucked up…but that's also just about his luck. It doesn't bother him, though. 

Chad's mom…yeah, Chad'd like to see Jeff try and find _his_ mom, fucking bitch. And his dad… 

Chad wouldn't mind seeing his dad again, truth be told. Everything he knows about being a man, a grown-up, he learned from his dad; he'd like to show the old man how he turned out. But he doesn't need to. Because the first thing he learned from his dad, and the most important is that a man pays his debts. 

Chad's not fucked up about the scar. If only because it shows that he's a man who pays his.

***

_"You're an angel," he says, "an angel. And I'm going to find your wings."_

Teetering right on the fringe of sleep, Joe opens his eyes. The ceiling is different again, plaster that holds the shape of the brush used on it, and it takes Joe a minute to quiet Mick's—Lord Rourke's—voice enough to remember he's in the barracks at Master Morgan's.

Sorry, _dormitory_ , not barracks. 

Of course, that distinction seems less a liberal-guilt technicality in the Morgan household than in others. Joe's never actually set foot in a dormitory, but the building is luxurious enough that Joe can imagine any free kid of the Empire being comfortable here. _Joe_ should be comfortable here; it's a damn sight better than playing fetching dog for Mary-Louise, even with all the shouting and clamoring and somehow teenage hijink-ery that goes on. 

_Hijink-ery, Jesus. That's not even a word._

Maybe that's what's keeping him up—the strange silence in the dorm tonight. It's easier to blame that then the voices in his head and the phantom ache of his shoulders. He's not going to sleep anymore for a while, anyway. Not with Mick circling his head like a vulture waiting on prey. 

He rolls up out of the bed and drags on a pair of boxers. Thinks about adding a shirt to it but his scars are feeling tender and he knows from experience that any cloth on them will only itch. Besides, wandering around in your underwear seems to be the dorm dress code. Joe can always say he's just trying to fit in. 

"I made cocoa," a voice says, as Joe opens the fridge and leans in to squint at the contents. He needs glasses but so far, he's been able to keep anyone from knowing. Though it's hard to imagine how his resale value could be much lower. "There's plenty, if you want some." 

He would think that living with Mick would've inured him to being surprised by anything, but the unexpected voice still makes him jump, slamming the back of his head into the top of the fridge. "Ow, _fuck!_ "

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." There's a table in the corner of the kitchenette, though it doesn't seem to get used. There's a movement in the darkness that Joe senses more than sees and then the lamp over the table snaps on, showing Jensen's mother, her hair unmussed by the pillow, even though she's changed at some point into a Texas A&M sweatshirt and plaid flannel pajama pants. "I couldn't sleep," she supplies, unnecessarily. 

"Yeah." Joe grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and cracks the seal crisply with a twist of his wrist. "Me either." He downs half the water in one go, cool liquidity surging down the hotly acid line of his gullet. "I didn't mean to bother you," he says tardily. He doesn't know the protocol for the mothers of slaves. "I can go…"

"No!" She says the word a little too quickly, a little too sharply, her hand moving on the table like she wants to reach for him. "Actually, I'm glad for the company."

Joe shrugs and perches on the chair opposite her, the vinyl cold, even through cloth. 

"You're…you're a body-slave, too?" she asks, with that same hesitant-but-morbidly-curious politeness that Joe gets from those free people too poor to afford slaves. 

His smile is only a little crooked, he thinks, as he says quietly, "I was," and drains the rest of his water. 

"But you're not anymore?"

Joe shakes his head, rolling the plastic bottle between his palms. "Not since my master gave me these," he says, turning his shoulder and jerking his head toward the scars. 

_Angel. You're my angel, Joe._

"Jeff Morgan did that to you?"

"No." Joe shakes his head again, setting the bottle on the table and forcing himself to keep his back straight. It'd taken a month to retrain himself, his posture, after Mick sold him. Mick never liked uppity slaves, which was anybody who made him feel bad about himself and that was a fine fucking line at the best of times. And life with Mick frequently wasn't the best of times. "My master before him."

He knows she has questions, he can see the curiosity in the way she looks at him, so hungry, so needy. At the same time, he doesn't know how to explain to her how it is. 

"Sometimes…" Joe starts, almost reconsiders and then decides to press on. She wants to know. No…he thinks she needs to know. "Sometimes I was his dog. Sometimes I was just Joe. Sometimes I was his angel, fallen to earth." Joe reaches back and touches the Nazca lines on his back. "This is where my wings should be, he said. He put them out there, for everyone to see."

"That's barbaric," Jensen's mom—Donna, she said her name was Donna—pronounces, her lips a flat, disapproving line.

Joe shrugs. "He had demons, same as a lot of people. He loved me, much as he could. And sometimes, like tonight, I still miss him."

The curiosity has become horror and revulsion. But better she looks at him that way than Jensen, better she hears this from him than Jensen, her son. "How can you say that, after what he did?"

Joe's mouth tilts up on one side and it feels like Mick's smile, old and world-weary and rue. "Because he was what I knew," Joe says, wanting her to get it, to see understanding nail home. "And because he was what I had. He was everything I had." 

Joe pushes up from the chair and slings his bottle toward the recycling bin, where it tumbles in for two points. "Good night," he says politely and heads back to his room, wondering if he'll be able to catch a few more hours sleep. And hopefully, he'll sleep without dreams.

***

Annie wakes up drowning under Chad's weight, slight as it is. She hadn't meant to fall asleep here.

Not that sleeping with Chad is a real hardship; for all his boniness, he cuddles well and he doesn't hog the covers, unlike Jared, who has a bad habit of cocooning himself in them. But, she thinks, wriggling out from under Chad's slack arm and heavy leg, Chad's a little too sweet on her and, at the end of the day, she doesn't want to hurt him. 

She really hadn't meant to start sleeping with him again at all except that, if a girl wants an itch scratched around here, she's not exactly spoiled for choice. And, housemaid and slave, she can't exactly go trawling the bars. Or anywhere, really. 

She finds her panties and a tee-shirt she's pretty sure belongs to Jared. She liberates a pair of sweatpants, too, and swipes a last cig from the crumpled up pack on the windowsill, taking it with her out on the back porch. 

She doesn't know what's wrong with her, lately. Living with Jeff, being his slave, is the best, cushiest gig she's ever had. Not that she's been around the block as many times as Kane or Jensen, but she's been around exactly enough to know that she's better off here than just about everywhere else. But she's starting to come around to the idea that better off and happy are two different things. 

The fucked up thing is that she knows Jeff would help her with it if she went to him, if she had a plan, if she had any freaking idea what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. Sometimes, she doesn't know why she can't just be happy with this: a good home, a family, good friends. Sun and sand and surf and the leisure to enjoy them when her work is done. It's a good life, really. 

She just wishes she understood why she can't be happier with it.


End file.
